


sunday morning

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Breeding, Established Relationship, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Not Beta Read, POV Third Person, Pregnancy Kink, Riding, Shameless Smut, Simon Snow's Birthday, Smut, Somnophilia, but like only very little, i will probably regret this later, not mpreg, talk of it at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Simon’s tail scrapes along the sheets and his thumbs dig into the joining of Baz’s hips and thighs; other than this, and the increasingly desperate heave of his chest, Simon strains to keep himself from moving. It’s his birthday, he could take this if he wanted—but that’s not what this is right now. It’s rarely that simple with them.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 47
Kudos: 326





	sunday morning

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing a birthday fic for Simon, but it got away from me, and I got sick, and now I have a fever, so... this happened instead. Sorry, mom.  
> This is pure filth. I have no excuses.

## 21 JUNE 2020

On the morning of his twenty-third birthday, Simon Snow wakes up to a peculiar feeling. At first, it’s cool and slippery … and then there’s a sweeping squeeze. Foggy with sleep, he doesn’t understand what’s happening despite it being a sequence of sensations he’s become thoroughly acquainted with over the past three years.

Simon grunts and squirms as his brain struggles to relocate out of the dream he was having and back into his body. It was a nice dream.... Baz was saying sweet things and touching him with reverent fingertips. Simon can still feel the budding ache deep within his belly. In fact, it’s getting stronger....

There’s a shift and a hum, and then Simon’s breath hitches as something warm presses against—

“ _Bazzzz_ ,” he rumbles, groggily opening his eyes. The sight before Simon is one his body knows on every level of intimacy; he throbs with need, grasping at Baz on instinct before his brain can finish catching up.

And Baz is … _oh,_ Baz is presenting him with an obscenely beautiful tableau that would make Simon flounder for intelligent thought even if he were wide awake.

“Good morning, love,” Baz purrs. He adjusts his weight, knees on either side of Simon, then he angles his hips forward and down such an insignificant amount, it pulls a whine from Simon. “Happy Birthday.”

Simon’s throat is very, very dry. He swallows and licks his lips and swallows again before managing to get out a raspy, “Th-thank you.”

Baz smirks, dark and cunning. This smirk is the one that always makes Simon’s blood rush south. Though, most of it seems to have done so already—Simon is more than sturdy enough to handle the agonizingly slow press of Baz’s weight as he swallows Simon down.

Simon’s tail scrapes along the sheets and his thumbs dig into the joining of Baz’s hips and thighs; other than this, and the increasingly desperate heave of his chest, Simon strains to keep himself from moving. It’s his birthday, he could take this if he wanted—but that’s not what this is right now. It’s rarely that simple with them.

No, Baz is plotting. Simon knows it for certain. Every short-circuiting neuron he possesses is grateful for it.

Immense relief seizes him as Baz finally settles in his lap completely. But relief is a fickle thing, and with one sultry lick of his lips, Baz has Simon sizzling with renewed need. Baz squeezes on every last millimetre and gifts Simon with a performative moan. The answering buck of Simon’s hips is rough and involuntary.

“Do you know what else today is…?” Baz asks in a voice that Simon knows is only for his ears.

Simon fumbles out an approximation of “no”. Even single syllables are too complicated now that Baz has begun gradually retreating. It takes all of Simon’s willpower not to chase him up or yank him back down.

Baz stills at the top, and Simon holds his breath in anticipation of the fall.

“It’s Father’s Day,” is what Simon thinks he hears Baz say. Hard to be sure because Baz punctuates his statement by dropping into Simon’s lap with brutal efficiency. Simon chokes on the pleasure, eyes rolling back.

Baz doesn’t give either of them long to adjust before repeating the cycle again. And then again. Simon writhes, keening, tortured. It’s too slow and too hard and _so_ wet.

“So,” Baz gasps as he raises himself up once more, “I figured, what better way to start the day than by making a baby?”

A pathetic growl spills out of Simon; it quickly morphs into a sob as Baz slams down anew. Simon shudders, distantly wondering if he’s so delirious with pleasure that he imagined Baz’s words. It certainly _feels_ that way.

Baz plants his hands on Simon’s chest and uses the leverage to work his hips in a more even, punishing pattern. “Would you like that, Snow?” Baz is smiling around his breathlessness, his fangs glinting.

Simon moans out something close to a curse.

“Or … should I call you ‘daddy’?”

Simon snaps his teeth and thrusts up into Baz hard enough to shove a whimper out of him.

“ _Ahnn…!_ So you do like it,” Baz warbles. “Good. Give it to me, then.”

Simon knows, in theory, that all his twitching and scrabbling at Baz means it’s difficult for them to maintain a rhythm. Baz’s thighs are trembling with the exertion. Simon can’t help himself, though—all he can focus on is the well-slicked sight of Baz’s efforts, and the sway of Baz’s own dribbling need, and that soft dip in the bowl of Baz’s pelvis that Simon is pressing his thumbs into.

“That’s it, right there,” Baz pants. “Spill it deep. Get me pregnant.”

Wings fluttering uselessly and tail whipping about, Simon’s too clouded with lust to notice the animalistic noises he can’t stop emitting. However, he does have enough of a mind to notice the unusual thwack of his tail against something solid on the bed with them. He blinks at it.

Baz’s breathy laugh should be illegal, Simon thinks, especially when coupled with the sight of him curling his fingers around the foreign object’s handle and holding it up for Simon to see. It’s black and tapered, and it’s something they’re both familiar with wearing in ways their friends can never know. The confusing part is why it’s here now, as it’s always been used as a prelude for things to come—a state Simon is already perilously close to.

“For after,” Baz coos with devilish pride.

He’s not sure he gets it. He’s currently preoccupied with the little divot in Baz’s bottom lip where his fang is caught. Simon stares at those fangs and _yearns_. He wants to beg for it—beg to flood Baz’s body with himself in every possible way—but he can’t find the words. So he settles for salivating at the thought as Baz rides him and whispers things Simon can’t consciously piece together, yet his body throbs and craves for them just the same.

“A ... after....?” he croaks.

Baz leans over Simon to lap up the line of drool on his chin. “That’s right. You’re going to plug me so I don’t lose a single drop.”

Oh … Baz doesn’t need to use his fangs to drain Simon to within an inch of his life, does he?

Simon groans, straining for a fanged kiss, but Baz holds himself just out of reach. “I’ll wear it all day to stay ready for you. You can bend me over and have me again whenever you want.” Baz ruts for emphasis with each word as he gasps out, “All. Day. Long.”

The room tilts. Simon’s world narrows to the white-hot velvet of Baz around him and in his ears, still murmuring delicious filth: “How many rounds do you think you can pump into me? Three? _Ah—!_ Four? _Crowley—_ yes, just like that—fill me with it…! I want as much as it takes for you knock me up—”

Simon’s last coherent thought before he succumbs to the electrical fire searing through his veins is that twenty-three is still plenty young—and off to a very good start—so, even while he spends into Baz as deep as he can bear, Simon is cocksure enough to think: _Five. Five rounds, at least._


End file.
